


Falling to Earth

by Phantomholdsmyheart2743



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Communication, F/M, Friendship/Love, Idiots in Love, Lack of Communication, Love Confessions, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Short & Sweet, Slow Build, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:08:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22488439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantomholdsmyheart2743/pseuds/Phantomholdsmyheart2743
Summary: Christine is tired of the flatterers and the patrons, but is Erik just like them? An outburst provokes an interesting conversation. E/C Complete
Relationships: Christine Daaé & Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera
Comments: 8
Kudos: 81





	Falling to Earth

Erik was a complicated man. Taciturn and sarcastic. Difficult at the best of times, a contradiction in motion who had the mind of a genius and a capacity for unrivaled tenderness. Brilliant, musically incomparable, and absolutely infuriating.

  
Christine Daae swung her feet angrily as she stared into her empty teacup. A glance across the table showed Erik’s full cup, cold and abandoned. She had been forgotten again it seemed. It really hurt her; the way her place seemed to shift from muse to hinderance. She hated him most when they were like this. Alone together in that house without a sun, where he would be constant only in avoiding her, giving all of his attention to the music.

  
He had promised her that they would take tea together, to celebrate her triumph as Marguerite. Then he had disappeared into the music room before he had taken a single sip. Before she could reveal the basket of sweet biscuits with chocolate that she had made for him. What hurt the most was the dismissive wave of his hand as he strode past, manically humming as if he could not see her.

  
When she sang, he was attentive. When they were alone after, he was reserved. There were times when he seemed to forget, becoming free and charming, only to withdraw when she came too close. She hated the way outside of lessons casual touches would pause and be replaced by deliberate evasions. He had dropped a salt shaker to avoid the touch of their fingers. He had jumped back reflexively when she had reached to touch his arm. She wondered if it were due to the lack of music.

  
She was tired of only being loved for her gifts. Of being the intangible songstress that haunted fantasies, too delicate to step off the stage and into the world. She thought that Erik had cared for her, loved her. Her teacher, confidant, and friend. She had seen his face, and she had still come back. She thought that should have proven what he meant to her. Perhaps he loved the voice only, and was disgusted by the vessel.

  
Tears pricked her eyes and clouded her vision at the thought. The pounding of Erik’s organ, a lament to accompany her misery. Patrons had told her that she was beautiful, with her mahogany curls and blue eyes. Young noblemen lined up at her doors seeking favor, mystery, sex. She sent them all away. Even Raoul, who had grown tall and fair in the years since their childhood.

  
Erik seemed oblivious. She could not put her finger on why it bothered her that he seemed unshaken by her new lilac gown, or the fact that he wasn’t charmed by the bounce of her hair; it was merely that it hurt her to be overlooked. To have her attempts at closeness rebuffed with a vehemence that could not be disregarded.

  
It was as if he did not see her, not truly. She felt that he was as the hundreds of audience members on the night of her debut: they did not want her. They wanted “the voice.”

Her voice. She was merely a shell. A vessel. An empty, beautiful, decorative vase.

  
The music stopped with a flourish. The echo of satisfaction in the dying notes made her furious. Christine angrily set down her cup as Erik burst into the room.  
“Forgive me, inspiration is a fickle mistress.”

  
She made no reply, and felt him come closer.

  
“You’re crying.” Erik said, as she turned to face him.

  
“Oh, really? I suppose it may have something to do with being underground with a man who can’t stand to be near me when I’m not singing.”

  
He seemed to crumple, and guilt nagged her. She pushed it aside. “Christine, I—”

  
“Clearly have no interest in my presence when my mouth isn’t opening for your pleasure!”

  
Erik’s ears had turned red, and Christine swallowed convulsively. She rather wished that she had phrased it differently, but nevertheless.  
“What am I to you, Erik? Do you see me at all?”

  
“Christine—”

  
“Am I just a breathing music box to you? Because I feel like a doll. A doll who is put away when her song is gone.”

  
“I never intended to—Christine, if I had known that you were unhappy—”

  
“You would have known if you ever bothered to speak to me!” She was raging now, her finger straightened to point at him accusingly. The infamous Opera Ghost stared at her in shock, edging backward as she advanced. “What is it that’s wrong with me, Erik? Huh? Because I feel like I must be a monster the way you startle from my touch. Why don’t you touch me, Erik? Or even meet my eyes! I’m wearing a new gown, did you even notice? Do you care about me at all? Not my voice, me. I thought that you were different from everyone else, but you don’t see me, not really.”

  
“Christine, forgive me—” Erik yelped as his back hit the wall by the door. “I—I didn’t know that you wanted me to…?” He blinked. Clearly he thought that she was insane. Maybe it didn’t matter at all. Maybe she was so far from his thoughts that—

  
“I was such a fool to think…“ Her breath hitched. “Forget it.” She turned to go, ashamed.

  
Erik caught her hand as she slipped through the doorway and she gasped. She could hear her heartbeat as he pulled her back into the room. He wasn’t wearing gloves. It was perhaps the first time she had touched his skin. His hand was cool in hers.

  
To her surprise, he dropped to his knees and pressed his forehead to the back of her hands. “My dearest, I never intended to make you so upset. If I may, I would love to address your…concerns.”

  
“Okay.” She squeaked. Erik released her hand and got to his feet. She missed the contact.

  
“I am unsettled by your presence, my dear. I have lived alone all my life, and your vibrancy is…wonderful, but new. I find myself bereft of words…at times I can’t,” He took a breath, searching. “Begin to explain how very deeply your every touch affects me, nor can I bring myself to contemplate your beauty. You are so inaccessible, my dear. To a man such as me.” He assessed her, his honey-colored gaze stealing her breath. “May I be frank with you, Christine?”

  
Christine could feel the heat in her face as she nodded.

  
“You must know that I love you. Your voice is the gild on an already perfect woman. I would never presume to display my affections in any way that must be distasteful. As you have seen me, dear Christine, I thought you would shudder at the thought of such a creature longing for you. I dare not allow myself the transgression of your touch. I never intended to make you feel alone.”

  
Christine swallowed, flushing. “You love me then?” She felt an unfamiliar thrill race through her, almost as powerful as being onstage. Simultaneously, a giggle spilled out of her. Erik turned away. She stopped giggling.

  
“Erik?” She reached out her hand. He regarded it with confusion until she nodded. Hesitantly, he took it. She felt her heart flutter at his touch. “I enjoy being with you. Like this. Don’t be afraid of me. Please. I’m not perfect, or brave. Pedestals are so lonely. I need you.” She looked at the way his hand enveloped hers, too shy to meet his eyes.

  
“What a gift you are!” The timbre of his voice made her brave.

  
“Erik?”

  
“Yes, my dear?”

  
“I wouldn’t be opposed if you were to…court me.”

  
He regarded her, searching for some sign of mirth, some hint of a joking smile. “Surely you cannot mean that?”

  
“I do mean it. I’d like us to progress. To know each other as we are in the world.”

  
“I could court you like an ordinary man. We could go walking together on Sundays.” He seemed to decide. “Yes. I will court you. My dearest love.”

  
He let go of her hand, and scuttled from the room. Long limbs quick, graceful. He soon came back, holding a dove-grey, satin ribbon. Offering it to her, he murmured shyly. “For your hair. I know you like to tie it back. I thought…” He seemed to lose any mustered courage.

  
“Thank you, Erik.” She stood on her tiptoes, and pressed a kiss to his unmasked cheek. His hand rose to cover the spot. There was something so innocent and private about the gesture, that she slipped from the room. As she walked down the hall, he called her name.

  
“Will you have dinner with me tonight? In the world.” He stood tall, imposing; she could see the scared man beneath the bravado. She answered him. Her Erik, so afraid of being unloved. So brilliant and brave.

  
“Yes.” She smiled, and looking into his honey-colored eyes she had never been so excited for the future.


End file.
